The Eves of Christmas
by refisher
Summary: On Christmas Eve, one month after narrowly escaping Monroe's grasp in Philadelphia, Miles reflects on a post-Blackout exchange with Ben in Chicago.


Disclaimer: I do not own _Revolution _or any of its characters. No infringement is intended, and I profit not from this piece of fiction.

**_The Eves of Christmas_**  
A _Revolution _fan fiction  
For primeideal, Merry Christmas!

Miles was never one who needed to be reminded of the past. He had spent enough of his life trying to run from who he was, as if any step taken could aid the moment his past would catch up to him and swallow him whole. All the running was exhausting, but such was the price the wedge demanded be payed. He had assumed the shape of a marine to flee from the child; a sergeant to escape the recruit; a leader to run from the follower; a traitor to abscond from the general. He had convinced himself that each time he ran, it was from a worse side of himself; that each time he ran, it was for the betterment of those he loved; that each time he ran, it was to spare pain and not to dispense more.

The wedge was not to protect himself. It was to protect _them_.

That's what Miles told himself.

Miles had been thinking about that wedge on and off for the last five years, ever since he first put into motion his plans to wedge out the last piece of family he had, Sebastian Monroe, and moreover since pieces of family began to mortise.

It still boggled Miles' mind sometimes to think about how an action meant to sever himself from the last of his ties had ended up slowly but surely cohering them together. As he sat around the camp's fire with his sister-in-law, niece and nephew, Nora, and Aaron on Christmas Eve 2027, he contemplated the last Christmas he spent with family.

It had been the exact day four years ago, in 2023, when the brother Miles had not seen for at least as many years sat himself on a stool at the bar in the Grand, asking Miles for "whiskey—a double, in case you are unsure."

The musty, candle-lit bar was devoid of any signs of the holiday season. Only the extra bodies in the Grand would have told someone that 'twas the season to be drinking, and although some market carts outside had strung up some tinsel, Miles told himself he wanted things kept plain. More likely, Miles did not have any cause for celebration.

Miles' mouth had remained tight in a straight line while his right eyebrow raised slightly in response to his brother's presence. Caught off-guard and unsure of what to say—(hell, even what to do)—Miles reached under the counter for a glass and began to pour a Matheson malt whiskey as he and his brother had drunk for years. (One of the few things Miles had in common with Ben Matheson.)

Miles could feel his nerves building on themselves, tightening, as he began to grow quite anxious. Ben was always patient and planning, and his sudden, unannounced appearance put Miles immediately on defense. Hell, even Ben's announced appearances in years past had put Miles into defense mode. 'How did he know where to find me?', 'What does he want?', and 'Why is he even here?' were a few of the questions rapidly firing across his conscience.

Ben, as obstinate as he was optimistic, kindly asked, "How ya been, brother?" Ben took the drink Miles proffered him. "I hear you're out of the game, about four months now by my calculations. Get too tough dragging your old ass out of bed?"

"My old, wounded ass."

"Your old, wounded, saggy ass."

_Hmph_. "My buns don't sag."

"Something in the water?"

"Actually, the whiskey."

"Then I should be in great shape by the end of this," Ben concluded, slightly inclining his glass toward his sibling before throwing back two huge gulps. "Ahh," Ben noised, a small smile playing across his lips, the happy-go-lucky smile he had been playing with for the solid two minutes he had been sitting in that stool.

Miles kind of hated it. "You'll need a hell of a lot more whiskey than that." His voice was gruff; his temper, short.

"Hm?" Ben paused and set the empty glass before Miles, the smile traveling further up Ben's cheeks as Miles poured his brother another double. "So, tell me," Ben continued to converse, dismissing Miles' building annoyance, "do they give awards in the Republic for wounded asses?"

Miles clenched his teeth together.

"I'm trying to keep it light, Miles. I'm not here to berate you or bust your balls or something—"

"Then why the fuck _are_you here?"

Ben sighed. "You're my brother." Miles scoffed. "We're family!" Laughter began to rise from Miles' chest. "That's no joke to me."

"It is to me."

Ben and Miles stared at eachother hard, as if the eyes would give away the other's thoughts.

Ben was the first to talk. Ben was always the first to talk. "One day, family will be enough for you."

"You're wrong," Miles said finally. "You. Are. Wrong.

"You figure, and you calculate, and you predict and surmise. But your theory about me is wrong. Always has been." Sure, Ben was really good about putting facts together so as to better explain the relevant data, but Miles hated feeling like some variable in an experiment, like something to be controlled and prodded and adjusted—no matter how accurate Ben could be. Miles knew he could never tell his brother how well yet how poorly Ben understood Miles. Miles had always blamed Ben for their problems, but Miles had known for a long time of his own inability to talk, especially to his brother. As if he could no longer bear the gaze of his brother's blue eyes, Miles looked down at the counter between them. Like Ben, Miles too was obstinate, and so he lashed out defensively. "And you thought—not well, surely. What did you think exactly?"

"I thought you might be looking for a place to stay."

"I have a place."

"I mean, a home."

Miles didn't really want to dignify that with a response. He half wondered if it was because he lacked any dignity. "I had a home. I lost it."

Ben sighed, concern etching itself on his soft features as his eyebrows knitted together.

"Don't," Miles warned irritably. A beat passed during which Ben waited patiently and silently for Miles to continue. It felt strange. Miles couldn't remember a time when Ben sat back and actually let Miles speak. "Bass and I... At first we thought," Miles started before pausing to pour himself a drink and to change his approach. "I don't feel like a war hero."

"Nor do you look like one." Ben smiled brightly and kindly.

The right corner of Miles mouth twitched upward slightly, in either annoyance or amusement. "I suppose not." Amusement.

Then, Miles sighed. "I'm tired."

"I figured." Of course he did. Miles downed his drink and refilled his glass as a flush began making its way across Ben's cheeks.

"I tried to fix my mistake, but I couldn't, so I ran." Miles swallowed hard, feeling unusually vulnerable, though his brother had a tendency to bring out that side.

Not wishing to discuss it any further for now, Miles downed his drink and stated matter-of-factly, "Let's just say there are things I would do differently."

Ben swallowed. "Yeah. I can relate."

Typical Ben language. Things had relations, could be predicted. But his words were cryptic, and Miles peered at him.

Ben took up the silence. "It's funny how we have sort of reversed our roles," he mumbled, his blue orbs looking into some distant world. "_Before_"—the Blackout—"you were this patriot, fighting for all these ideals... Freedom, justice, rights," he listed off on his fingers, his words a little loose. "And I was the amoral scientist ready to do whatever it took, no matter the risk."

'Amoral'. 'No matter'. Miles was not sure if the words hurt because they were coming from Ben or because Miles found them to be profoundly true.

Hearing what he said, Ben quickly amended, "Though you aren't that guy anymore either."

Miles' face twisted skeptically before the conversation took a hard right. "How is the family, by the way?"

"Do you really want to know?" teased Ben.

"I guess not."

"Liar!"

Miles _hmph_ed. "Definitely, and much more."

Ben looked downcast before catching his brother's gaze and saying genuinely, "I love you, brother."

If anything, that truth angered Miles. "How? After every wrong thing I have ever done? Even _before_, I was always fucking up. I never got anything right for you!"

"You always think you have to do right for me, but that's never what I wanted! I wanted you to do right by yourself, to have the best life you could give yourself. I never meant to push you away. I never meant to fail you so badly."

"_You_ fail _me_?"

Miles looked at Ben disbelievingly, but Ben didn't know how to refute looks, only arguments. So Ben tried his best to give Miles the variables he was overlooking. The things about Miles he couldn't see himself.

"I know you feel like you have nothing to lose," Ben spoke slowly, "but you do. You have me, and Charlotte and Daniel."

Miles blinked, and Ben found in place the countenance—the mask—that Miles could so easily wear across his features, carefully concealing his thoughts and feelings. A talent he picked up from the infantry two decades ago.

"Charlie and Danny," Ben amended. When Miles became unreadable, Ben tended to run his mouth more so than usual. "Rachel has been," only Miles would have noticed the slight pause, "gone for awhile now.

"Danny is a lot like me: Cautious, procedural, predictable. Unyielding. Patient. The pregnancy complications gave him asthma, and physically he can run down fast, but he has this inner strength. He has this unruly shock of blonde hair that refuses to cooperate with anything short of static electricity.

"But Charlie has so much of her mom. That fire, _spirit_. If she gets it in her head to do something, then it is done. She won't listen. And, God, does she _hate _hanging around the village. I fear she hates me each day she stays. You should have heard her whine when she found out I was leaving for a few weeks' trip. Not enough adventure for her inside a fence, I'm afraid." Ben looked over at Miles pointedly, "Know where that came from?" Miles smirked, inviting Ben to continue. Miles was not used to the weird expression on Ben's face, and he kind of enjoyed seeing it there. "And she has so much of that Matheson idealism."

Miles scoffed.

"You may dismiss it all you want, but I've known you your whole life."

Ben permits the meaning to hang in the air. He does not flat out admit that Miles once believed in the goodness in people so that Miles can stay in denial for as long as he cared to. Yet, hidden in the words were all the evidences that Ben needed to remind Miles of the faith he used to have, of all the good he used to see and know and feel.

Miles closed his eyes.

"You know why I started the militia?"

Ben had hoped, if he let the topic slide earlier, that Miles would return to it voluntarily. Knowing Miles was a man of few words, Ben looked at his sibling, gently returning Miles' gaze.

"I wanted to protect people. I wanted to..." A lump traveled down his throat, sticking in his chest. "To save them.

"To save you."

Ben reached across the counter, resting his hand on top of his baby brother's ring and pinky fingers. It hurt Miles: That the touch felt so foreign to him now.

"God, Ben. All I could think about at first was finding you. Getting to you. Getting you safe." Miles was bad at taking, and now that he had started, he was having trouble stopping. "And the more I looked, the more I found dead families—littered along the streets or in the fields or under bridges, _like trash_," Miles choked roughly, his voice momentarily betraying what his face hid so well. "And I looked at every"—he stared distantly—"single"—his pinky twitched beneath his brother's—"face." Miles' eyes looked downward, as of remembering or envisioning something, before his lips finished, "To make sure it wasn't you."

Ben could hear Miles gulp, and the direction down which the talk had headed only assured Ben he hadn't been imagining it.

"And then, somewhere along the way, it was like... I said things, and they happened." Miles' tone gained hints of fascination and pleasure. "And I did things? That no one questioned. And I kept on doing things, and I... _I loved it_.

"Still do, actually."

For the first time since Ben could remember, he saw fear on Miles' face. Real fear. And he realized his brother was afraid of himself.

If Ben were more like his old, realistic self, he might have noted in his logs that Miles was rightly scared. But Ben had changed, and he could still see the boy he grew up with inside the man standing on the other side of the counter.

Ben moved his hand over the remainder of Miles' hand and squeezed. "You're my brother, Miles. No matter what."

'No matter'.

"I know you can be better," Ben pressed, a bit too aggressively and definitely too soon. "I know you can undo all you have put into place—"

"Don't," and just like that, the two were both back-pedaling.

It wasn't that Miles didn't _want _to be that guy. Of course he did! He wanted more than anything to be the brother Ben deserved—he had wanted to be the General his people deserved—but Miles knew better, or at least he thought he did. He wanted to be that guy, but he didn't think he could be. And he hated that fact. He hated himself. He blamed his own limitations, his own weakness for power.

But Ben was stuck in a radically different line of thinking. The hopeful line. The _idealistic _one.

"Miles, you can—"

"Jesus, Ben." In Miles' face, Ben could see immense _contempt_. Then, a sneer reared, and Ben recoiled, withdrawing his hand from his brother's, visibly disoriented. "You have no fucking clue who I am."

Ben sat still, his face showing confusion yet suspicion, the expression gentle but stiff.

This must be the Miles Matheson that Ben had heard so much about, the General well-deserving of your fear, your terror, your trembling. Ben thought the character was a myth, but here he was, as fully alive in Miles as the young boy.

"Rachel? She isn't gone. She's dead. Say it with me. 'Dead.'"

Now came the point in their up-and-down conversations where Miles would wipe any trace of patience or kindness from Ben's deck.

Miles looked coldly at Ben, a hint of

_Pride_

in his voice.

To really send it _home _for Ben.

"I killed her."

Miles waited, combing his eyes over every physical feature his brother had at an attempt to gather information—anything Ben's movements could tell him: Shifting of the seat, searching eyes, restless hands. Anything.

But Ben remained quite motionless. "You were always good at killing." Monotonous. He stood up slowly from his stool and added, "Guess that much hasn't changed."

Ben turned around to leave but looked back over his shoulder to say, "Merry Christmas?"

In that moment, Miles had felt the ground shake beneath him, though he stubbornly kept his footing, his sneer becoming a snarl, as he watched his brother slowly walk out of his life.

If Miles had known then that that would be the last time he saw his big brother, he would have done better to remember the pragmatic clothes Ben wore; how long he kept his hair now; the added age in his face; the distressed hunch in his shoulders, as if bearing some great responsibility.

He ruminated over the memory several times, questioning which parts really happened and which he had gradually changed for himself.

He wondered about Ben's faith in him.

He looked through the fire at his niece and the rest of Ben's family. Nearly a month ago, they narrowly escaped Monroe's grip before embarking on this trek to get a pendant, one to match Monroe's own power.

When did Miles start calling _him_'Monroe'? Is Miles seriously entertaining the belief that they could really do this? That these misfits could actually pull off a _coup_? That they could get the power back on and rebuild the world?

How idealistic.

But Miles remembered the first time he seriously began to question what he had been doing as General of the Republic. He had come across the body after the militia had finished 'enforcing rules' in town. The face of the deceased woman matched another, this one in his memory, one of the many victims of anarchy Miles had found along the roadside in his search for Ben after the Blackout. It had caused Miles to wonder: Had he become one of the very monsters he set out to protect the people against?

Miles had never looked at Monroe the same after that.

He had never looked at himself the same, either.

It hurt, deep and throbbing, aching, and heavy as lead, and Miles was so very tired of running.

He decided that, yes, he did think that these guys could pull it all off: Rachel had the brains; Nora, the resources; Danny and Charlie, the heart; hell, though Miles tried to hide it, he liked challenging Aaron and admitted to himself that Aaron challenged him, too. Together, they could stand and fight, and, when they were done, Miles would have a place he would not run from and people who would freely choose to rely on him.

He decided he did not think it was likely, but, hell yes was it _possible_.

His brow set into a determined line as he smirked at the flames, thinking about the things Ben had said; feeling the guilt, regret, and shame alongside—

If Miles weren't so careful with his thoughts, he might've used the word 'hope'.

He sighed, tired but

Grateful. Miles kind of liked it.

His deep, brown eyes drank in his... circle of close people. "Merry Christmas, Ben."


End file.
